


butterflies turned to dust

by cresswell



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Disabled Character, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Wheelchair!Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3318719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cresswell/pseuds/cresswell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She gives him an <i>are-you-serious</i> look and he laughs, watching as she smiles and turns a page. "That's the best you've got?"</p><p>"Sorry," Bellamy says, still grinning. "I don't have much experience when it comes to picking up girls in the hospital."</p>
            </blockquote>





	butterflies turned to dust

**Author's Note:**

> hey! disclaimer that i do not know much about hospitals or amnesia, but i did my best. warnings for referencing a car accident?? also warnings for mentions of death.

Bellamy misses his leg.

Well, of course he does. He can't run track without it. He can't drive without it. He can't even walk properly without it.

The wheels on his wheelchair stick to the hospital's too-clean floor, making a soft sound every few seconds. Octavia pushes him at a leisurely pace, strolling like she's got all the time in the world, and he wants nothing more than to just take off on his own.

But the last time he'd wheeled himself, he'd knocked over a nurse. So.

"I spy with my little eye-"

"The floor," Bellamy interrupts, trying not to seethe. "Or the ceiling. Or the walls."

Octavia huffs behind him, turning him a little roughly around a corner. "Fine, ruin the game."

"It's always the floor, the ceiling, or the walls," Bellamy snaps. "That's literally all there is."

"Not true. There's... like... medical supplies. And stuff."

"Right," Bellamy says flatly. "Okay."

His chair screeches to a stop and he grips the arms so hard his knuckles go white. He can't help but hear the faint sound of metal scraping on metal, watching blood splatter across his windshield. No matter how hard he tries, he hasn't been able to shake that night.

Octavia appears in front of him, seeming tall now that his eye level is so low. She stands with her hands on her hips, glaring in that trademark Blake way. "I'm trying to be supportive here, Bellamy, but you're making me want to strangle you."

"Go ahead," he retorts, sounding pathetic even to his own ears. "See if I care."

She throws her hands up in the air, clearly frustrated. "You know what? Fine. Wallow in self-pity. Drown in it, for all I care. Give me a call when you're done being a selfish ass."

She turns on her heel and storms away, leaving Bellamy sitting dumbly in the middle of the hall, his cheeks burning in humiliation. Gritting his teeth, he begins to wheel himself back the way he'd come, but on his own, he moves much slower. He wants to rip his hair out in frustration.

It's slow going, but he finally manages to make it to the elevator he and Octavia had taken. His room is on the third floor (which just seems dumb; why would they put disabled people on anything other than the ground floor?) and he realizes belatedly that he doesn't know his room number. He'd been moved to the rehabilitation section the day before and hadn't had a chance to look at the number outside his doorway. He huffs as the elevator doors open and he rolls himself into the hall.

He's got too much pride to just roll around looking lost, so he finds the nearest room with an open door and hesitantly arranges himself in the doorway. "Hello?"

There's a small shriek and Bellamy can see that there's a girl in the bed, sitting up with a hand pressed over her heart. She's wild-eyed. "Jesus, you scared me!"

"The name's Bellamy, actually," he says, and it's weak and lame, and he plows on when she just furrows her brow in confusion. "Anyway, um. So I don't know my room number. I was just wondering if I could page a nurse from your room? It's the first one I came across."

The girl nods. "Yeah, of course."

"Thanks." He wheels himself in a little further so he can press the monitor. There's a buzz, and he sheepishly relays the situation to a nurse. When he steers himself back around, the girl is smiling down at her lap. "What?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing."

The nurse had said just to wait where he is, so he does, tapping his fingers restlessly on his armrests. After a beat or two of suffocating silence, he inclines his head towards the girl. "So, what're you in for?"

She touches her fingers lightly to her forehead, like a whisper, and Bellamy can see now that there's a neat, crooked row of stitches curving from her hairline to her eyebrow. "Head injuries."

"Yeah, that looks painful. Metal, though," he adds, and she laughs.

"Amnesia, too."

She says this like it's no big deal, like she's commenting that it looks like it's going to rain outside, and Bellamy tries not to show his surprise. "Wow. How'd that happen?"

She gives an annoyed sigh when she says "car accident," like it's a run-of-the-mill thing and she's annoyed with herself for getting into such a mundane situation. Bellamy quirks his eyebrow. "Me too, actually."

"Is that how..." She trails off a little sheepishly, choosing instead to just gesture vaguely towards him. He knows she's referring to his leg, which ends just above the knee.

"Yeah."

"Bet that was painful." Her mouth twitches. "Metal, though."

Bellamy laughs, pleasantly surprised that she was able to get the sound from him, and she smiles back. Even with the garish stitches, she looks pretty, her hair shiny and looking freshly washed and brushed. Bellamy rubs his fingertips on the tops of his wheels, even though the sensation makes him cringe, and averts his gaze to her TV. "What're you watching?"

"Oh." She looks embarrassed, her cheeks turning a pale pink color. "It's nothing."

"No, really."

She toys with her blanket and Bellamy can see flashes of bruising along her arms. "It's a documentary called 'How Does Your Memory Work'."

"Ah." He doesn't think she's lame or anything for watching a documentary, but he feels like he's intruded on something private. "Well, memories are funny things. I'm sure yours will come back to you."

She studies his face for a brief moment, looking up at him through long lashes, and then averts her gaze to her lap again. "Yeah, I guess. If my brain heals right."

He's about to say something- maybe about how the bruising makes her look kind of badass, or about how she'll be okay no matter what- but then there's a knock on her doorway. Bellamy turns his chair awkwardly around again, and there's an amused-looking nurse there, smiling at them. "Lost, Mr. Blake?"

"Sorry," he says, sheepish, and even though he's not facing the girl anymore, he can tell she's smiling. "Octavia knows the room number, but I don't."

"Not to worry," the nurse says, grabbing his chair's handles and beginning to wheel him out. He strains in his seat to face the girl, lifting his hand in a wave, and her lips curve into a smile.

* * *

The next time he sees her is in recovery therapy. It's a ridiculous thing where patients in the rehabilitation program sit in a circle and are spoken to like they're little children, and Bellamy hates it. But he gets a twisted sort of pleasure from making snide remarks about everyone in his head, so there's that.

He wheels himself in a few minutes early, still in his pajama pants. They're lime green with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on them. He turns to wait and nearly whacks her ankle with his foot. "Oops. Sorry." He finally looks at her face. "Hey, it's you!"

"Lost Boy," she greets, smirking into the pages of her magazine. "I was wondering when I'd run into you again."

"Fate has a funny way of working out."

She gives him an _are-you-serious_ look and he laughs, watching as she smiles and turns a page. "That's the best you've got?"

"Sorry," Bellamy says, still grinning. "I don't have much experience when it comes to picking up girls in the hospital."

"Pity." She catches a glance of his pants and raises an eyebrow. "Nice PJs."

Bellamy feels the back of his neck warm, and he rubs his hand there sheepishly. "I feel like I should have an explanation, but... I don't."

She laughs, finally, and it makes all her stitches and bruises seem less dire. "Bellamy, right? I'm Clarke."

"Clarke," Bellamy repeats. "Like Clark Kent?"

"Yes," she replies seriously. Her poker face is excellent. "Exactly like Clark Kent. In fact, I'm actually wearing my superhero costume right now."

Bellamy eyes her sweatpants and sweater. "Somehow I doubt that."

She smiles again, her eyes settling back on her magazine, but then the therapist, Vera, announces that it's time for them to begin. Both Bellamy and Clarke groan at the same time, and she smiles when he catches her eye. "Sit by me, will you? I don't want to sit by that weird guy with the unibrow again."

So he ends up wheeling himself next to her chair in the circle, watching a little guiltily as she draws on a blank corner of her magazine. Vera is waxing poetic about the beauty of life and everything it entails, even the hardships, and it's all too easy for him to tune her out. Clarke, as if able to sense his boredom, murmurs "At least we didn't have to meditate this time."

"Right?" He hadn't exactly pegged her as the kind to make snide remarks, but now that he thinks about it, it's pretty fitting, so he rolls with it. "Don't tell anyone, but I definitely fell asleep last time."

Clarke's eyebrow quirks. "I could fall asleep right now, meditating or not."

Bellamy claps a hand to his chest, looking at her mournfully. "And here I was, thinking that me and my Ninja Turtle pants were enough company for you."

She grins with her teeth clamped down on her lip, fighting back laughter, and Bellamy feels a silly surge of happiness at making her laugh. "You're ridiculous. You're going to get us kicked out of group."

Bellamy pauses. " _Can_ we get kicked out of group? Cause if so, I'm all for it."

She raises her magazine to cover the bottom half of her face so no one will suspect her of talking. "You're so bad. You're going to get me in trouble with all the nurses and staff."

Bellamy snorts. "Right, because you're such a star inhabitant."

"Touche."

Bellamy suppresses a smile. By some grace of god, Vera hasn't noticed their side conversation- or if she has, she hasn't said anything. Other patients are tossing them dirty looks, though, and he just grins cheerfully in return.

When group is finally dismissed, Clarke slumps forward in her chair. "Thank god that's over."

"I wouldn't be surprised if she starts reading our auras next week."

"One time she pulled me aside and gave me a free-of-charge palm reading."

"Did she say there was a tall, dark, and handsome stranger in your future?"

Clarke socks him on the shoulder, but she's laughing, a dimple appearing on her cheek. "You can't tell that type of thing from a palm reading, dumbass."

Bellamy shrugs, smiling up at her and hoping he doesn't look too far gone. "Worth a shot."

She rolls her eyes, wordlessly going around to the back of his chair to wheel him out. "Keep trying, and maybe you'll get somewhere."

* * *

They fall into a simple, lazy routine. They eat breakfast together, and sometimes lunch, if they're both feeling up to it. They sit next to each other at every dumb group therapy session. On days when Bellamy doesn't have extensive physical therapy, and Clarke doesn't have mentally exhausting memory exercises, they hole up in her room to play cards or watch TV or play video games.

He rolls into her room one day, the new calluses on his hands groaning in protest, with his breakfast tray balanced on his lap. "Rise and shine, Princess," he calls as he turns in her doorway. "You'll never guess what the cafeteria-"

He stops short, gripping his wheels so he comes to an abrupt halt. Clarke's already out of bed, her hospital-issued nightdress (why does she still _have_ that thing?) not looking warm enough for the chill in the air. Her arms are crossed and she stares stubbornly at the ground, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the woman in front of her. 

"Um," Bellamy says, aware that now they're both looking at him. Clarke's entire demeanor changes, her arms falling to her sides and a small, albeit strained, smile on her face. "Sorry, I didn't realize you had company."

"No, it's okay," Clarke says too quickly, and Bellamy can tell she's desperate for an interruption to whatever's going on. She cuts her eyes at the woman. "Mom was just leaving."

Bellamy can feel his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "Mom" is a severe-looking woman in a doctor's lab coat, rubber gloves on her hands. Now that he looks closer, he can kind of see the resemblance, but Clarke is soft sides where this woman is sharp edges.

Clarke's mom gives her daughter a look that Bellamy can't read and pulls her lab coat tighter around herself. "I'll be back for dinner," she says, starting to walk out the door. Bellamy hurries to get out of her way. "Think about what I said, Clarke. You can't live like this forever."

Bellamy's looking at Clarke when she says this, and for a horrible moment, it looks like she's going to grab her IV drip and hurl it across the room. But then he blinks and she's deflated, flopping back on her bed with a low groan. "God. Sorry about her."

"No, don't be." He wants to tell her that she should never be sorry about having a mother, but he doesn't want to be preachy, and anyway, it's not like he knows anything about their situation. He rolls over to her bedside. "You feeling up for Mario Kart?"

And just like that, regular old Clarke is back, twisting lazily onto her side and catching the Wii remote he tosses to her. "Always. But pick Rainbow Road and I'm calling it quits."

He laughs, his head thrown back, and it takes him a few beats to notice the soft look on her face.

Clarke wins nearly every round, and each time, she does a little dance around her room before throwing herself back down onto her bed. Her hair is loose today, and the evening sunlight creates a halo around her, and Bellamy probably stares a little too long. She wags her eyebrows at him, popping a pretzel in her mouth. "What do you say, Blake? Ready to admit defeat?"

"Never," he crows, making her laugh, and she lazily selects the next course. She's playing as Princess Peach because he'd forced her to. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, effectively missing the start of the course. "So what was that earlier?"

"Hmm?" Either Clarke's really engrossed in her addiction to winning, or she's really good at feigning ignorance. Both are completely possible. "What was what?"

"Come on, you know," he says, sighing heavily when his kart skids on a banana peel. "With your mom?"

Clarke shrugs, twisting her arms to turn around a rough corner. "She works here, so. She always comes by for dinner."

"She was here around one, though."

Now it's Clarke's turn to sigh, and she sounds faintly annoyed. "So what? She's my mom. She does what she wants."

"Do you remember her? From before?" He's pushing, he knows, but he can't really bring himself to stop.

"No."

"Do you remember _anything_ from before?"

There's a pause, enough time for Clarke to win the course. "No."

Bellamy swears quietly under his breath. "Do you-"

"Look," she interjects, and for the first time in however many days, she sounds upset with him. "I don't ask you about your accident. Okay? Ever. I'd really appreciate if you could do the same."

He sits in stunned silence for a beat, watching the anger blaze in her eyes, and then swallows. He's not sure if he feels guilty or ashamed or angry. "Right. Okay."

She tears her gaze away from him, running her hand through her hair, and says, "You should go." And just like that, she's shut off again, like a statue carved from marble. It hurts more than he thought it would.

He's angry, but in a quiet, simmered-down way that he knows will soon dissolve into guilt and anxiety. He rolls himself away, his movements jerky and uneven, and wonders for the millionth time what her life was like before her slate was wiped clean.

* * *

(He tries to conjure up an image that night while he's lying awake in bed:

She was probably one of those art students who snickered but kept her cool when sketching nude models, and she probably wore combat boots and annoyingly kicked the desk in front of her like a nervous tick, and she probably refused to read anything that was on the NY Times' bestsellers list. Maybe she argued with her mom a lot and scraped together every penny she got to save up for buying a shitty apartment with her boyfriend- did she have a boyfriend?- and maybe she was applying to colleges far far away from home so she could burn herself to the ground and reconstruct a newer, better version of herself.

Or maybe he's wrong, because whoever she was before is more or less dead. Maybe he's creating something from nothing, but he can't help it. He knows he's romanticizing a girl who doesn't remember her last birthday or her best friend's name, but _he can't help it._

He rolls over in the dark and tries to push the image of Clarke with a leather jacket and a cigarette from his head.)

* * *

He doesn't see her for a few days because he figures she wants her space, and it's almost sad how time spent without her seems to drag on. He makes Octavia bring up all his books on Ancient Rome and rereads them all, although he's more or less on autopilot when he does because he's already read them so many times.

"You're moping," Octavia says, narrowing her eyes at him. She'd helped him into his bed and is now rolling herself around in his wheelchair. "Why are you moping?"

He rolls his eyes and digs his hand into his bowl of popcorn. "I'm not moping. You're imagining things. Shut up."

She heaves a sigh and spurs herself across the room, narrowly avoiding running into a chair. " _You_ shut up. I'm not an idiot, big brother. I know you."

"I know you know me." He shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth so he can think of what to say next. "But you're still wrong."

Octavia's expression changes to the one she wears when she's figured something out, and Bellamy hides his face in his hands in preparation. "It's about that girl, isn't it? The one who was in the background of our FaceTime that one time?"

She's right- Clarke had been in the background of one of their FaceTimes before. He'd been in her room when Octavia called, actually, and had answered in a panic since he knew Octavia would immediately assume the worst if he ignored the call. They'd been sitting in comfortable silence, Bellamy reading on the edge of her bed. Clarke had been seated in her chair by the window, drawing, and Octavia had seen and asked numerous questions. Clarke had quirked up an eyebrow in amusement, but Bellamy had muttered a hurried excuse and hung up on Octavia before his cheeks could flush any redder.

"No," Bellamy replies, but his voice sounds weak, and Octavia makes a triumphant sound. "Leave it be, Octavia. She's kind of pissed at me."

He hears the sound of his wheelchair rolling, and then Octavia whacks him on the head. "You idiot."

He looks up at her incredulously. "You don't even know what happened!"

She shrugs. "Doesn't matter. Go fix whatever you did."

"It's not that simple."

"It _is_ that simple. You like this girl, right?"

"Yes." The answer is out before he even processes her question, spoken so fast he almost interrupts her. His eyes widen. "I mean- it's not-"

"Don't you _dare_ say it's not that simple, Bell," Octavia growls, pointing a finger menacingly at him. "It is that simple, and you just proved it. So now, the question is this: what're you gonna do about it?"

He slumps back against his pillow, feeling exhausted. Sparring with Octavia is always draining, probably because she always wins. And she's usually right, too. This time is no different.

"I don't know," he says finally, throwing his hands up and feeling useless. "This is sort of your area of expertise, isn't it? Why don't you just tell me what to do?"

She rolls over and pats his knee sympathetically. The expression on her face is uncharacteristically gentle. "I can't, big brother. You gotta do this one on your own."

* * *

Bellamy's up stupidly early the next day, and he washes himself up as much as he can without paging a nurse. (Because he has to have assistance to bathe, and it is literally the worst thing ever.) Usually, he just rolls around the hospital in his PJs, but today he struggles into jeans and a sweater.

"Wow," Octavia says from where she's propped on his bed. She'd come early too for "moral support". (He suspects she'd just wanted to make sure he doesn't chicken out.) "You must really like this girl."

He groans, using crutches to get himself to his chair. "Go away, Octavia."

She gives him a blinding grin. "I'll be here when you get back."

He knows the route to Clarke's room without having to check maps or anything, so he's there before he really has time to prepare himself. His hands are sweaty on his armrests and he hovers outside her room. The door is open, and as he sits there, he hears Clarke inside. It sounds like she's... crying?

He rolls forward an inch, peeking into the room. "Clarke?"

She's curled up on her bed, her back to him, and the light frames her the same way it did the first day he saw her. He's hit with an odd wave of nostalgia, his fingers tightening on his wheels, but the spell is broken when she rolls over and sees him. She's startled. "What are you doing here?"

He rolls forward, moving into her room. "I just... wanted to talk. I missed you." Her eyes widen the tiniest fraction and he hurries on, rubbing the back of his neck. "What's wrong?"

She swipes the back of her hand across her face and a smear of black appears like a burn mark. "Nothing."

He gestures to his own cheek. "You've got something..."

She looks at the back of her hand and groans, seeing more streaks. "Shit. Excuse me for a moment."

He nods, watching her step into the small bathroom area of her room. She doesn't bother pulling the curtain behind her, so he can see her in the corner of his eye as he rolls further into her room. He tries focusing on the TV to give her some privacy, but it's a Spanish soap opera, so he has no idea what's going on.

He hears a clatter and Clarke lets out a cry. "Shit!"

He cranes his head around to her. She's dropped something- a concealer compact, he thinks- and the powder is spilled out all around her feet like dust. She bends down, frantically trying to collect it all, and the sound of her crying grows louder. Bellamy throws all caution to the wind and rolls his way over to her.

Her tears create mascara streaks identical to the earlier one and Bellamy's heart aches for her. He touches her shoulder lightly, and she jumps at the contact. "Clarke, stop."

She jerks away, throwing him a dirty look, and keeps trying to scoop the powder into her hand. "Get off me. I have to get ready."

"Clarke, it's ruined now, you can't use it-"

She pushes at his leg, knocking him to the side a little, and hides her face as her shoulders began to quiver. Bellamy closes his eyes briefly, wishing he didn't have to see her like this. He'd seen her before as invincible and untouchable and unstoppable, but now he's watching her cry and feeling helpless. It makes his head hurt.

He touches her shoulder again, and she doesn't jerk away this time. "Clarke, just-" _Just what?_ "Let me help you."

She pushes her face against his leg, her forehead resting on his knee, and he brushes his fingers through her hair and lets her cry. He understands that maybe this is what she needs- not consolation or some bullshit response about how everything's going to get better, but just someone to offer comfort. He'd be willing to hold her, if he could; just tangle himself up with her in her hospital bed and pull her so close that they became one person. It's a scary thought, but it's there.

He touches her cheeks lightly and gently lifts her face, forcing her to look at him. "Do you want me to clean you up?"

She nods, her face crumbling again like his kindness broke her heart, and she holds tight to his hand while he leans over and grabs a washcloth. He washes her face off gently, stripping her of her mascara and lipgloss and tear tracks, and when he's done, her skin is slightly reddened but she looks refreshed. She exhales slowly, closing her eyes for a moment, and he can see now that her eyelashes are blonde.

"Thank you," she says finally, her voice thick and hoarse. She brings his hand up to her lips and kisses his palm, his knuckles, the inside of his wrist-

It becomes too much for Bellamy, and he retracts his hand almost apologetically, casting his gaze at the floor. "I can't help you reapply you're makeup. I'm sorry."

Her mouth tilts up into the ghost of a smile. "That's okay. I don't think I'll wear any."

"Where are you going, anyway?" Bellamy asks, watching as she stands and pours over the contents of her suitcase. "You said you had to get ready for something."

Her back's to him, but he can see her shoulders tense. "Yes. I have a funeral to go to."

" _What?"_

She glances over her shoulder at him. "Yeah. My mother's forcing me."

Bellamy rolls over to her, searching her face, but she skillfully avoids his gaze. "Do you- I mean, who is-"

"It's my boyfriend's," she says quietly, her hands stilling in her bag, and Bellamy's heart plummets into the ground. "He was the one driving."

It takes him a moment, but then he understands. This boy was the one driving when Clarke got in her accident. "Oh," he says, and then latches onto her hand. "God, Clarke, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I am too," she replies. "I'm going to the funeral of a boy I supposedly loved, and I don't even remember him." She squeezes her eyes shut. "I don't even remember what he looks like."

"Hey," he says, firm but gentle, tugging on her hand until she looks at him. "It's not your fault. Don't feel guilty about it."

"How can I not?" She looks so lost. "They're about to bury a boy I'm supposed to love, and there's not a thing I know about him." Her face pales. "Or about us. What if he was my first kiss? Oh god." She covers her mouth with her hand. "What if I had sex with him? _What if I'm not a virgin and I don't even know it?_ "

"Hey, whoa, breathe." He's holding both her hands now, and she's squeezing his fingers so hard he thinks they might break. "One thing at a time, alright? Let's get you ready for the funeral, okay?"

"Right." She inhales deeply, closing her eyes, and she looks so achingly beautiful in that moment that Bellamy's chest hurts. "I'll just- I'll go change."

He watches her walk off toward her bathroom area, a bundle of black fabric in her arms. This time, she draws the curtain shut behind her. He highly suspects she's going to cry again, and he doesn't want to make her feel embarrassed. 

She comes out a few minutes later, and Bellamy has to remind himself that he really shouldn't be checking her out when she's preparing to go to a funeral. But he can't help it. She's wearing a breathtaking black dress, bold and plain, and Bellamy wishes more than ever that he could stand on his own so he could grab her and kiss her.

"Ready?" he asks, proud of himself for not letting his voice crack.

She stands with her back to him, rummaging through her bag until she pulls out shoes. As she speaks, she begins doing her hair. "No. But I don't have a choice."

He rolls over to her until he can touch her waist. The fabric of the dress is smooth under his palm. "You can do this."

"I know I can." She sets her shoulders and turns back around. Her hair is pinned away from her face, falling down her back, and the sharp eye makeup she has on makes her appear unforgiving. But Bellamy knows the truth.

He lets her hold his hand. "I'll be here when you get back."

She's staring down at their intwined fingers, looking very far away. "Yeah." All of a sudden, she snaps her gaze to his, her eyes wide with excitement. "Wait! You can come with me!"

His jaw drops, and he stares at her for a moment. "I don't think a funeral is really a plus-one occasion."

"I'll feel so much better with you there," she says, her voice getting close to hysterical. "I don't want to be all alone, surrounded by people I don't remember but who remember me." She squeezes his hand. "Please, Bellamy."

He wants to say yes, obviously. But there are potential consequences, like: "Your mom would kick my ass, Princess."

"I'll deal with her."

"I wouldn't know anybody there."

"So we'll be in the same boat."

"People will think I'm your boyfriend."

She opens her mouth to respond just as quickly, but shuts it. She blinks once, twice, and then opens her mouth again. "Would that really be so bad?"

He smiles sadly at her. "No," he says, his voice gentle. "But he _was_ your boyfriend."

He lets that sink in, watching the way she lowers her gaze and swallows thickly. Finally, her voice quiet, she says, "No, he wasn't. He was _her_ boyfriend. But not mine."

She doesn't clarify, but he understands. He always does.

* * *

Finn Collins's funeral is small and pretty. The first thing Bellamy notices is that most of the guests are teenagers. He pulls aside a girl who introduces herself as Harper.

"We all knew him from somewhere," she says. "Either from a shelter or from juvie."

"He was in juvie?" Bellamy asks in surprise.

Harper nods. She's sad, he can tell, but her demeanor is controlled and calm. "Yes. Not for anything serious. He was a good person."

"He must've been," Bellamy replies, more to himself than to Harper, and looks at Clarke. She's standing beside Finn's coffin and her whole face is shut down, her eyes wide and overwhelmed.

Harper shifts beside him. "How do you know Clarke?"

"Um..." he doesn't know if Clarke would want him telling people she's in the hospital, so he hesitates. "Just... from around."

Harper arches an eyebrow but doesn't press. "How is she these days?"

"Did you know her?" Bellamy asks in surprise.

Harper shrugs. "Not well. Knew _of_ her, mostly. But I heard about what happened. I can't imagine what this must be like for her."

"She's strong," Bellamy says, even though Clarke's strength was never questioned. "Like steel."

Harper smiles, and only now does she look sad. "You watch out for her, okay?" She points a finger threateningly at him. "Anyone here will beat you up if you don't."

Bellamy laughs, watching her make her way back to the guests. Taking a deep breath, he slowly heads towards Clarke, hobbling unevenly on his crutches.

"I'm just about done," Clarke says when he reaches her. She wipes a hand under her eye even though there's not any tears.

"It's fine. Take your time."

She breathes in shakily, the sound rattling in her chest. "Listen, I-"

"Clarke!"

They both turn towards the voice, and in the corner of his eye, Bellamy can see Clarke steeling herself for another interaction with someone she can't remember. The girl running towards them is grinning so widely it looks like it hurts.

"I'm sorry," Clarke says politely, not looking at the girl. "Do I know you?"

The girl takes it in stride. "Yes. My name is Raven." She's twisting her hands in front of her like she's nervous. "We were in juvie together. With Finn."

The way she says it makes it sound like there's a whole backstory there, and Bellamy raises his eyebrows. But Raven doesn't elaborate; just smiles gently and takes Clarke's hands in her own. "I know you don't remember me. It's just so good to see you. I've missed you so much."

She must realize how overwhelmed Clarke is, because she takes a deep breath to calm herself. "Sorry. I- this isn't really the place to bombard you with stuff, I guess." She lets go of Clarke's hands to dig around in her bag. "Here. If you ever decide you're ready to... I don't know... talk about what it was like? Here's my number."

Clarke smiles, finally. It's minuscule, but it's there. She takes the scrap of paper Raven hands her and holds it like it's a piece of treasure. "Thanks. Maybe I will."

Raven smiles again, blinding, and looks like she's restraining herself from pulling Clarke into a hug. "Of course. It was so nice to see you again. Take care."

They watch her walk away, leaving a bouquet of flowers on Finn's coffin. Bellamy feels his eyebrows creep up his forehead. "Do you think she- ?"

"I don't know," Clarke says. She looks calmer, now, like Raven's support and presence helped ground her. She catches him looking and takes his hand. "Let's go home."

* * *

Clarke falls asleep almost as soon as they settle in her mom's car, and her head drifts onto Bellamy's shoulder. He doesn't know what to feel or think or do. Dr. Griffin's eyes keep flitting to him in her rearview mirror and he stares determinedly out the window.

"She's not going to remember."

Bellamy glances up. Abby's eyes meet his for a second before she looks back at the road. "Not for a long while, anyway. The damage done to her cerebrum was extensive. It's a miracle she can still use her whole body and speak correctly."

He'd expected as much, but it still saddens him a little bit. "Why are you telling me this?"

She shrugs. "You know her best. I don't know her at all. And she trusts you, so maybe I should too."

"You don't have to-"

"She's different than how she was before," Abby says, like she hadn't even heard him speak. "Her personality is the same- she's more cynical now, though, probably because she's forgotten she's already been through the rebellious teenager phase." She smiles sadly. "But still, she's different. She's happier. Even after everything."

"She wasn't happy before?"

Abby thinks for a moment. "No, I suppose she was, but not like this. She was happy because it was expected of her. But now, she's happy because... she just _is_." She exhales slowly. "And I know that's because of you. You're the only one she's really talked to, and you're the only one she trusts, and I can't thank you enough for that."

He shifts uncomfortably, careful not to jostle Clarke. "I mean... I don't know what to say."

"I know. That's alright. I think you've become a permanent fixture for her, and I just wanted to acknowledge that."

She catches the look on his face and laughs, the sound odd coming from such an uptight woman. "I didn't scare you off, did I?"

"No," Bellamy replies as Clarke shifts, her nose nuzzling against his neck. "I don't scare easy."

* * *

"We've been here a long time."

They're watching Harry Potter in her room a few days after the funeral. Clarke had been texting Raven, but the phone now lays forgotten at the edge of her bed while she watches the movie, enraptured. There was an upside to her amnesia, Bellamy had discovered: she got to re-experience things all over again.

"Hm?" Bellamy asks, tearing his gaze away from her face before she can catch him staring. He's a little distracted. During the first movie, she had wormed her way under his arm and against his chest.

"Here in the hospital, I mean." She draws nonsense on his chest. "A very long time."

"I guess so, yeah." 

She's quiet for a moment, her fingers gently pulling on the fabric of his shirt. "Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Once we leave here, we won't leave each other behind." The mid-morning light makes her eyes look sea green, her hair made of gold, and Bellamy aches with how beautiful she is. "We'll still belong to each other."

The words send a shiver through him and he feels his skin grow hot, like their implication licks his skin with fire. He lifts his hand from where it rests on her shoulder and brushes his thumb against her cheek. "I can't imagine belonging to anyone else."

Something light and beautiful blooms across her face, and then she takes his face in her hands and kisses him, full of joy and comfort and sunlight. He slides back against her pillow, every inch of his skin burning with the move of her lips, and through the fog in his head, he remembers to kiss back. Their hands tangle in the space behind Bellamy's head and his body surges forward to meet her, their mouths in identical smiles against each other. She tastes wonderful. She smells wonderful. She _feels_ wonderful. Everything about her is wonderful. She runs her hands up his sides, leaving goosebumps in her wake, and tangles her fingers in his hair, kissing him more, and more, and _more_.

"I love you," she says against his cheek at one point, possibly a minute or an hour later. She'd ended up sitting on his hips, somehow, and her chest is heaving. "I love you. I love you."

"You, too," Bellamy replies breathlessly, sliding a hand into the hair at her neck and pulling her lips down to meet his. "God, I love you."

They kiss again, slower, with heartbeats between them, and Clarke leans back until they're both sitting upright. He has to tilt his head back a little to look at her, and she looks so beautiful. She touches his lips with feather-light fingers.

"You're missing the movie," Bellamy says. Quietly, because the air around them feels special and sacred.

Clarke's mouth unfurls into a slow smile and she slides her arms back around his neck, leaning her forehead against his. "I'll watch it later."

He smiles up at her and she kisses him again, giggling when he runs his hands up her sides and mumbles "I love you" against her mouth. They fall back down against the pillows and Bellamy feels the sound of her laughter race across his skin.


End file.
